Hick vs. Hipster

Last night I danced for a guy with the reddest beard I have ever seen. He had bad teeth, a sleeve of some sort of maybe-tribal designs, and called me “ma’am.”

At first I thought he was just some hipster boy. And, as all strippers know, hipster boys don’t have any money, and if they do, they would rather spend it on beard-wax and mdma than on a stripper.

So I avoided him.

This boy, though, was really intent on getting my attention, and asked me to dance for him.

It turns out he was there that night to hustle the pool table. I love meeting other hustlers. There is some sort of simpatico between us that makes me want to shake their hand. He slips his pool cue back in its personal carrying case and, rather than shake my hand, proceeds to spend all his winnings on me.

"What do you do for fun?" I ask, just as I ask them all.

"Uhhh…. you probably don’t wanna know, ma’am. I got a lotta guns. I like to ride bulls. I’m a hick!”

And he was the sweetest hick ever. I may or may not have taken his number so that I, too, can go bull riding before my time in New Mexico is up.

Am I the only one who gets confused?


You can take the girl out of the hustle, but you can’t take the hustle out of the girl

I met up with my girl Tommie last night. At 22, Tommie is a retired stripper. She now has a real job as a paralegal doing paralegal things. She showed up in a blazer.

I’m really proud of her because she had an exit strategy. Most girls don’t. They don their first g-string at 18 or 19, and then before they know it they’re 26 with no other marketable skills aside from the art of persuasion (which is hugely valuable) and, more significantly, a huge gap in their resume.

As far as I’m concerned, stripping is the best job in the world but fuck me dead if I’m going waste a millisecond thinking I can or even want to do it forever.

Tommie was - and still is - an excellent hustler. She was a sassy girl who took the piss out of nearly every client who wanted to shower her with their hard-earned inheritance. Tommie taught me how to finagle thousands from clients in exchange for watching us take a shower together through plated glass.

For fifteen minutes they would pay $300 to watch the two of us draw dicks and boobs on the glass and scrub each other in those hard-to-reach places.

They often wished to extend the spectacle for an additional fifteen or thirty minutes of sudsy sass.

But now Tommie’s got a real job that she can tell her parents about.

I’m happy for her but I miss getting our slut on together.

Last night Tommie, her paralegal friend and myself met up at some whiskey bar in Noho and, slamming some shots and chasing it with pickle juice. In essence, I got obliterated and now, at 8:30am I have a hangover that tastes like hamburger. I checked my wallet and it turns out last night only cost me ten dollars.

Tommie had been strategically making I-want-you-eyes at the bartender for our last round of drinks. When the bill came with our third round of free shots, it read $49.

"What if we give your forty and our numbers?" Tommie asks, smiling.

Immediately the bartender replies with an eager “Yeah, sure, but you gotta do some more shots with me.”

We proceeded with several more shots and a few cans of craft beers. We left with our numbers and I’m not even sure we paid the bill we bartered.

It’s now 9:00 and I am determined to make my first meal of the day a bloody mary with a side of hamburger to complement my Ronald Macdonald gueule de bois.